Butte semi-weekly miner. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1886-1890, 1887-01-05
50 went In, and mother looked 4 M

ma 80 l went In, and mother looked q m
and mid:
Thou art a good lnAA ! think thy iathe
h dead dreamt it Just now-and thor ar,
hiding it. IT'S no matter; I shall know soon
The Lord bless you, Eunice!'
And after that she went into a sort o. faint
and died. So father and mother were bott
buried the Same day, and 1t was settled that
should 60 and live with my Aunt Deborah,
some six miles away; William was to drive
me over that same evening. Well, at sun
down, all the things being packed, and nothin:
left to do, l went through the fields to the
side O. the brook, whore 1 had used to meet
Tom, and there I sat on a fallen tres, think
Ing Ut all the trouble, and how all my life
seemed dead and buried with father and
mother. Close by me was a thick clufnp o
palm, willows. an dog roses an grass ali
a-tangle. reaching Ger the bank; an when
Id sat thinking q while, l heard a rustling,
an a voice saying, "Eunice, las!" l knew the
voice right well, though it gave me = start at
the moment.
"ls it thou, Toni" I asked.
aye" he says, parting the leaves and
looking through. ave been lying here all
day to get a glimpse o. thee. I thought may
lie thou wouldst como down here afore thou
went off, an there's much that I've got to say
to thee"
ut may lie much or little" I answered him,
'but [ desire to have naught from thee, Tom.
Dost thou know father is deadp'
AYE. EuDice; but that was iilluck:
never meant to hurt thy father. It were all
done in tn hurry. didn't notice as he were
among the keepers. That's why l mum run
the country. l might stand to be took up if |
there were liaught against ms but TIL birds, |
but this o thy father is a hanging matter, &C
l mum run the country. I'm going on board
ship tomorrow, and I've brought thee enow
to pay thy passage out to mt, lass, and we'll
b wed when thou lands.D
"Tom," says, 'it's not for we two to wed
now thou hast killed father. I wonder how
thou canst think O. such a thing. Naybs
trouble has made the dazed-like.n
II didn't 60 for to kill thy father, he says,
angrily.
That don't make no difference" I says: at
was thy wrong doing that caused thee to be
going with poachers, and with a gun in thy
hand. Thou vast warned, an thou paid NO
heed. 1 can never wed thee; Toni. / told
lice thou'd break my heart, and now thou'st
i'll"
And burst out crying, for it was al mors
han l could bear. Tom came out O the
and began saying something; but
heed what it was, being 70 miserable
when suddenly William came up beside me
md put bis hand on Toms shoulder.
"IIl not let on as I've seen thee, lad be J
aid; "but thou mum make thyssn scarce.
sunice IS right; there can be no wedding b.
wiki you. Thou mum 60; and right sharp, {
DOL" l
Tom stood silent for q moment, and ther I
10 said, quite quiet:
"Well. good-by, Eunics. if % b thou mean. I.
THAT thou sayx." t
aye" I said, II do mean it, Tom. til I
I
"Good-by," he says again, and turned of by '
be copse; and that was the last / ever heard q
r saw O. Tom Marsden.
l was full O. sorrow for many a long day I
fter that, and thought nothing would seen, '
air and pleasant to me again. But at last s
cyan to SEQ l should never have been a happy $
oman with Tom. Everything is for the II
sst, Miss Nelly, though We can't SEQ it at the v
me. 10 when, at the end Of two years, John e
.artley asked me to marry him, I said YES, 81
nd have never repented. Only when y
ar the corncraks 1t brings back to me those &
d days tt
Mrs. Hartley ceased, and We sat silent a tt
tie space. Tho elm trees were casting SC
niger shadows, the sunshine was more Ii
'lden, the evening primroses were opening 1t
cir yellow eyes, the corncrake had gone. st
I'd the children's voices sounded nearer and hi
carer. Mrs. Hartley smiled happily. th
II often think" she said, "of the old saying, OF
Lany a cloudy dawn brings in q bright ki
y.'"-Househoh WordR az